Welcome to Hollywood?
by RachyBaby09
Summary: The Phantom of the Opera's got Hollywood fever! Erik auditions for the American Idol singing competition. Can he survive Simon Cowell's wrath? Will the Phantom land that golden ticket and swoon his way to Hollywood? Fun ONESHOT!


_(a/n: Here's a silly oneshot for ya! Erik auditions for the 'American Idol' singing competition! Can he survive Simon Cowell's wrath? Will Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, make it to Hollywood? Read & find out. :) Contains Kay/Leroux references. Erik has a full-face mask—and his Christine is supposed to be the lovely Emmy Rossum. Please drop a review before you're off!)_

* * *

_WELCOME TO HOLLYWOOD?_

Grave shots of sculpted Angels and stone crosses were shown; the charming television personality—Ryan Seacrest—narrated the rather solemn footage…

"…and that brings us to our next contestant." The epic Paris Opera House was displayed as Ryan Seacrest continued his commentary. "Fleeing France and all its 'ghosts,' one man has traveled to the land of opportunity…in hopes his voice may finally be heard."

The violins were cued.

"This masked singer gives a new meaning to 'reclusive.' He's a man with endless names and no face—infamously coined the Opera Ghost, Phantom, and a Genius. Though, after some time talking, this strange and self-acclaimed 'Angel of Music' seemed to be no different than every other eccentric artist…"

The silhouette of a large cloaked figure swelled the screen. Like a savage criminal—who had agreed to an interview—the man's identity was concealed and blackened out. But his musical voice was every bit divine.

The violins were cued once more; melancholy music accompanied the haunting glory of his voice.

"I am like everyone else. Inside, I am like everyone else! Why does that seem so strange?"

"Angel or Opera Ghost, Genius or Phantom—just who is our next American Idol?"

"I am no Angel, nor genius, nor ghost…I am Erik!"

"Yes—the voice underneath that mask is undoubtedly one of a man."—dramatic pause for effect—"This masked genius claims to have swooned away a beautiful soprano…but will he have what it takes to swoon away our three judges?"

* * *

Randy's eyes bugged out impossibly more. "Woah…" He lounged back in the leather chair with pure suspense. It creaked in defiance, assaulted by the massive pull of his body weight. "Uh…hello."

Erik sneered, centering himself in front of the three judges' curious stares. Ryan Seacrest was way too talkative for his own good, and he'd just endured hours upon hours (upon hours) of whispers and malicious finger pointing; surely, this torment and God-awful scrutiny would pale in comparison…

Burning eyes frantically shifted beneath the black mask. He inhaled a strained breath; his powerful gaze drew to the pretty brunette with an enlightening, chocolate eyes. Through a breathy whisper and a swollen heart, he sighed the name like a sacred prayer, _"Christine…"_ The three dumbfounded judges shared a glance. There was no doubt of it. This masked man's heart was worn on his cloaked sleeve.

Paula Abdul stuttered a bit. "Hey, there. It's nice to meet you." He gave a slight bow. It was regal. His presence was very haunting.

Erik's stare intensified. His golden eyes moved one seat to the right. An unhappy man sat stiffly, posture straight as an arrow, hairy arms crossed in a menacing gesture. In the rudest way imaginable, he waved a hand and snapped his fingers at the distracted masked singer. His patience was vastly thinning.

Nothing! Not so much as a word! He rolled his eyes and scoffed his disgust.

"Alright, look. I don't have all day for this."

Erik's brows knitted inquisitively beneath the mask; he wondered why a British man was judging an American competition.

Simon Cowell rolled his eyes once more, sliding a piece of paper across the table. He glanced down, struggling to decipher the clumsy and childish handwriting. "Erik is it?"

Silent and still, Erik nodded. Cold and unmoving as Death, he seemed far more corpse than man. "Erik…? Erik…what?"

"I have no last name. Ignore the Scandinavian origin. I have no country. No nationality. 'Erik' was given to me on accident."

Randy shook his head, sharing in the apparent tragedy. "Wow. That's some intense stuff, man…some heavy stuff…"

Simon's intrigued eyes shifted from Paula to Randy…then back again; his lips curved into an evil little grin. "Is it just me, or does it feel like an elephant walked into this room?"

Paula narrowed her glare. "Oh, really, Simon? And what's_ that_ supposed to mean?"

Simon chuckled and scratched at the back of his neck, shamelessly satisfied. "Well, a man who looks like he's escaped from some circus act walks into the room…and you two don't utter so much as a word."

Erik's eyes flashed fire. He stepped forward, hissing between clenched teeth. "I _did escape _the circus!"

Simon pursed his lips, dipped his head back, and glared up at the ceiling. He was not amused. Simon folded both hands behind his head, his voice painfully monotone. "So, are you ugly or something?"

Paula gasped, shaking a tightly wound fist. Simon looked Erik up and down, sizing him up. "And what, in God's name, is with that dreadful getup?" Simon ignored Paula's hard, icy stare and continued. "I'm seriously tempted to kill myself. I actually want to die. You make a funeral look quite pleasant."

Erik's gloved hand broke through the material of his cape. He reached inside, eyes never parting from the British demon. His fingers snaked around the beloved lasso, stroking his preferred-choice-of-weapon. He wanted nothing more than to Punjab that grin off of Simon Cowell's face. But his hands quickly slipped away; he, also, wanted to go to Hollywood…

Paula elbowed Simon's side with a deep frown. "Simon!"

"That's not cool man," Randy shook his head. "Not cool."

Simon threw his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright, calm down, would you?" His chest raked in cruel laughter. Then he snickered—pearly whites fully barred. "Tell me: what's the gimmick, Erik? Can you lose the mask?"

Erik swished his cape. Paula swooned. "You…try…my…patience…"

"Oh! You leave him alone. God, you're such a bully! He'll remove it when—_and if_—he feels comfortable." Paula looked up at Erik apologetically, her eyes large and lovely. "Don't you even listen to him, sweetie." Paula's many bracelets jingled and tinkled as she continued. "Anyways, I think I like it. It's…kinda sexy…mysterious…"

Paula winked and Erik's cheeks baked.

Simon tilted his head with a sly grin. "Somebody's a bit kinky…"

Paula stared daggers; Simon squinted, reading something which was scribbled illegibly on the paper. "Says right here: 'in no condition will I remove the mask. Woe to those who so much as question its purpose.' Woe to you, Miss Abdul, woe to you…" Simon lifted an eyebrow. "It also says woe to all _fops…_" Erik cringed, grasping at the sweeping material of his cape. "I know I really shouldn't even bother asking…what in the world is a fop?"

"A coxcomb and slave of fashion! A fribble! A popinjay, fool and fashion-monger! A de Chagny! A ninny and…" Simon threw up his hands. Seething with mockery and interrupting Erik's passionate 'fop' speech, "alright—thank you!" Simon reclined and crossed his arms. "I ought to tell you, Erik…Hollywood is rather abundant in_ fops_…" Paula scoffed and shook her head; she pointed to Simon, making the circular hand gesture for 'crazy'.

Randy's eyes enlarged; he collected the bloody mess that was Erik's paperwork. "Hmph." Impressed, he nodded his head. "Spent some time in Persia, did you? Built a palace?"

"As well as a torture-chamber," Simon added with a triumphant grin.

Erik straightened to his full, intimidating height—and not an inch less. His chest puffed out with a sudden arrogance and pride. "They call me the trap-door lover!"

"Riighhht…" Simon bit his lip, stifling back his amusement.

"I used to make the little Sultana laugh."

Simon arched his eyebrows. "Really? Is that so? I can see you're positively a barrel of laughs now…"

Paula smacked Simon in a flirtatious gesture. "Oh, enough from you! I'm sure this gentleman has better things to do than listen to your mean insults."

Erik's eyes softened. She had called him a gentleman! Erik, Erik, Erik!

Paula smiled; Erik adjusted his mask, easing the perspiration which wallowed beneath. She was quite charming. Erik felt himself blushing, and was thankful for his wretched mask.

She glared at Simon and huffed, completing her thought. "And besides…you're not so much of a looker, yourself, Simon Cowell."

Simon took a sip of his coca-cola. He mumbled, "Like you're a sight for sore eyes."

Randy threw his head back in a thunderous laugh. He rubbed his eyes. "Ah, man…you two…"

Paula nodded sweetly. "I gotta say, dear, your speaking voice is just lovely."

A look—which could only be described as jealously—tightened Simon's features. "Says here you're an Angel of Music." Erik hesitated and then nodded once more. "I would say that's for _us_ to decide."

Randy cleared his throat. "So, what are you going to sing for us today?"

"Don Juan Triumphant."

Paula thoughtfully tilted her face. "Hmmm. Haven't heard of it. Who's it by, Erik?"

"Don Juan Triumphant is my life's work. I often compose for weeks at a time, living and breathing off music and nothing more. Uninspired and I may leave Don Juan untouched for years."

Simon grunted. "You must work as seldom as you can."

Paula rolled her eyes at his tiring mockery. "Alright, hun, whenever you're ready."

And Erik sang; the room fell silent. He was, indeed, an Angel of Music. The judges had never heard anything more absolutely and heroically sweet, more gloriously insidious, more delicate, more powerful, in short, more irresistibly triumphant.

It was remarkable! Like a true spirit, the adorable voice seemed to float about the room! Paula shivered; Erik's vocals were penetrating the back of her neck.

Simon betrayed himself and gave a silent gasp. Lo and behold! His coca-cola cup was singing!

Tears tumbled down her (fake) tanned cheeks in a waterfall. She madly sniffled and wiped them away.

Then, just as quickly, Paula swayed to and fro, snapping her fingers, dancing to Erik's musical voice. "What do you know," Simon thoughtfully observed. "She has finally flipped."

This magical voice seemed to inspire every emotion known to mankind! The poor, distressed damsel was putty in Erik's ghostly hands!

The vocals transformed, sinking several octaves, low, sensual and ominous; he sang through a hypnotic and drugging purr.

Paula fanned herself in vain. Then fainted.

Simon shrugged. "I may have underestimated you. I believe you have killed her, Erik."

The brilliant voice gradually faded away, dissolving into a dark silence.

Erik propped both hands on either side of his waist, toe thumping in a threatening melody. The remaining judges decided that everything about Erik proved musical. "On the contrary. She is merely sedated."

Randy finally found his voice; he spoke beneath a stolen breath. "Woah. I got chills, man."

Simon groaned. He rolled Paula's limp body off of the counter.

She tumbled out of her chair, vanishing from sight. Erik frowned. He rather liked her…

A booming voice startled Erik. "You the man! You the man! Angel of Music in da house! Yeaaah! That's what I'm talkin' about. Yeah. I actually liked that. Very much." Randy crossed his arms and grinned. He extended a finger, pointing to Erik and his genius. "This dude got soul. You're my dawg, Erik. You're my dawg."

Erik considered Randy's words—being called 'dawg'—and pondered whether he should feel complimented or insulted.

Then Erik stiffened. Reality crashed down like a crystal chandelier: both _Randy and Simon _would have to say 'yes' for him to be sent to Hollywood! Paul Abdul was unconscious. Erik sneered inwardly, cursing himself. After Miss Christine Daae, he should have known better! His music was struck by fire! And not from the fire of Heaven!

"It's a big, fat yes for me. Do your thang, Opera Ghost, do your thang."

Simon gave a sharp nod. Then he sighed aloud—defeated but equally resistant.

"OK. I'll admit your voice is utter perfection—in pitch, tone…in every way, really. The Angels could weep from such a thing. Safe to say, your talent is far beyond this competition."

"Yes! Thank you! That's more like it." Randy stretched like a feline, smothering his yawn. "So, Simon, that's a yes?"

Simon scowled and shook his head. "No, _Randy._ Quite honestly, it's far from a yes."

"Ahh. Give him a break, dude—"

"I've said this before, and I'll say it again: this is not just a singing competition. You're going to need more than the voice of Heaven to make it here." Simon gave a nonchalant wave in Erik's general direction. "This is a guy who should be the voice for a lip syncher—not in the spotlight."

"I don't know, man. That was some pretty sweet stuff. Besides. I'd say Paula's swooning-unconsciousness speaks for itself."

Annoyed and frustrated, Simon kicked her collapsed body aside. He vented, steaming like a teakettle. He would surely explode.

He turned to Randy, arms folded, his eyes free of all emotion and humanity. His British accent seemed to thicken with each word.

"And just what do you suppose America will have to say about that mask? They'll be frightened half to death! Sorry to say, but you WILL NEVER advance to the final group, Erik. You will never be judged by the public audience. I guarantee it."

Randy grunted, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He cocked his head. "Why's that?"

"Well, first off, I would never force America to endure such a thing. They're traumatized enough with the economy crisis."

Erik's head fell low, spirits lower.

"It's a no more for me." Simon shrugged, indifferent to Erik's searing pain. "Sorry."

Paula's muffled and disembodied voice was the most beautiful thing to ever grace Erik's ears:

"Well, Erik, pack your bags. It's a full-on yes for me!"

Randy clapped his hands together. He hooted and gave a legendary war cry. "Wheeewwww! Angel of Music, welcome to Hollywood!"


End file.
